


Graffiti

by RaeSone99



Category: NCIS
Genre: Banter, Domestic Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:39:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeSone99/pseuds/RaeSone99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place a few hours after "Revenge" Tony convinces Ziva to drive him home with promises of food and first aid. What follows is what actually happens. Fluff warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graffiti

Ziva huffed, sitting down on the rim of Tony’s bathtub. She was tired, and itching to go to sleep. At this point she didn’t care where, somewhere, anywhere, here on the bathroom floor for all she cared, but Tony… _Tony_ had insisted that she drop him off at his place before she went home, and then all but dragged her upstairs into his flat once he’d seen her injuries in full lamplight.

She could have fought him off, much like she did Bodnar, but the strangest gleam came into his eyes as he studied her now swelling right eye, multiple scratches, and bruised cheekbone. Even still she might have protested but he’d threatened, “either I take a look at it or we head to the hospital, and don’t think I’ve forgotten about your hand either!” So now here she was, adrenaline spent, sorer than ever, body aching, in Tony’s bathroom.

Out in the main room she could hear the rustle of papers sliding around a table, and cabinets slamming shut. She winced. Maybe she should add headache to her list of injuries. Ziva slouched some so that she could rest her head against the cool sink to her right.  Judging by the racket he was making his search for food was failing miserably. The man didn’t even have peanut butter? Inwardly she sighed. As soon as she felt better they’d have to go shopping. He also needed bread, and judging by his cursing, coffee. Ziva slit one eye open to stare at the Spartan bathroom she was in…maybe some flowers. A wry smile crept over her face making her wince. She’d be changing the color scheme of his bedroom soon if she wasn’t careful. Tensing her legs experimentally, she decided that if he took any longer she was headed to bed.

The smell of tea wafted through the door… Chamomile? Of all things he had chamomile tea? With an amused grunt she stood and began staggering to the door.  _I wonder if he’s slept in that bed since I was last here._ For anyone else it wouldn’t even have occurred to her to wonder, after all it was _his_ bed! But now…now she wasn’t so sure. Somehow she was certain the sheets would smell like neither of them.

Ziva froze, her hand snapping to her piece. It was too quiet. Adrenaline flowed, her pain forgotten. _Where was Tony?_ She rounded the corner silently and efficiently.

Bedroom? Clear.

Spare room? Clear.

Living room? Clear.

Yellow light pooled in the threshold of the kitchen and the scent of tea grew stronger as she crept closer. Ziva practically hummed with tension. _Had they been followed? Was Bodnar right? And if so was Kazmi’s killer still at large? Could it be possible that Bodnar was_ not _dead? But no._ Ziva shook her head. She’d checked, Ducky checked, the head uniform checked. He was dead. The thought brought her neither pleasure nor peace. Something in her tightened. Her life couldn’t be so empty could it? Shaking her head she rounded the corner.

“Tony!” she exclaimed.

DiNozzo jumped, startled out of his seat where, apparently he’d dozed off waiting for the tea to finish in the microwave. This didn’t surprise her. The gun aiming at her head however did. There was a beat as they stared at one another and then Tony released a dry laugh.

“Well aren’t we the pair?”

Tony holstered his Sig and Ziva did the same. He stretched out his hand towards her, a request. She stared at his palm for a scant second while the gears in her brain turned. Slowly she placed her hand in his and they sat down at the square table across from each other. Silence fell between them as they listened to the microwave hum, and she watched Tony examine the knuckles on her bruised right hand.

“Are you ever going to tell me how you got these?” He gestured for her other hand as well, which she obliged.

“I was…” she searched for the word to describe her frenzied workouts, “…training.”

Tony pressed his lips together. Clearly he had another word for it, but he kept his opinion to himself, something she was grateful for.

While he bent over her hands she traced the shapes of his face with her eyes. She couldn’t help but wonder, ‘when was it?’ When was the moment that they’d stopped weaving and dodging around 12? Because right now? The way Tony was brushing his thumbs over her fingers in his dim kitchen, and the way she was letting him in quiet contentment? 'Right now' was tantamount to shaking a red can of spray paint in front of a national monument. The intent was clear.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

With a groan Tony rose, retrieved two steaming mugs of tea, and placed them carefully on the table. She slid the one with the skull and crossbones motif towards his spot and took the plain black ceramic with a wide rim for herself. Tony returned with sugar, spoons, and a first aid kit. The last one caught her eye.

“You keep a first aid kit in your kitchen?”

Tony shrugged, “Sure. Kitchen’s closer than the bathroom anyway. Besides it’s not like it’s a rule or something.” _Rule._ He said word casually, but by the way his eyes flicked to hers she knew that it was anything but.

Ziva was too tired to care, and sort of irritated.

“Tony, I almost fell asleep waiting for you in the bathroom! Why didn’t you tell me it was in here?”

His lips twitched, “Oh. I thought you just needed a minute, you know what with going rogue and all.”

Ziva snorted, “Does it still count as going rogue if the Director practically wrote me a permission slip?”

DiNozzo grunted.  He didn’t have an answer for that.

“Well you know Homeland’s gonna throw a fit. The last time something like this happened, well actually I think it was the time before last…or…”

Tony closed his eyes and scrubbed his face before blowing out some air,

“We need new careers.”

It was so unexpected that she actually laughed. An inconceivable feat a few minutes ago.

‘New careers?” she repeated in amused disbelief, “And what would you be? A teacher perhaps?”

“Oh no! You know how I feel about children.” He pulled a face.

“I don’t know,” she teased, “You did pretty well with Vance’s kids. The pizza box monster was…”

“Your idea! I couldn’t have done any of that without you.”

Ziva slipped her shoes off. For some reason she was sure that even if he hadn’t become an agent he’d still have found a way to help people.

“Very well. No children...what about older?”

Tony’s eyebrows raised, “Older?”

“Yes. We could finally put your film knowledge to good use. You could teach film history at a college."

"You know, I've done that before," he said mildly. Suddenly Ziva remembered:  _Jeanne, Jenny...We have too many ghosts in our closets._  She winced and watched Tony carefully for any sign of distress.

Seeing the dreamy expression on his face she relaxed and quickly added, “Of course it would be at an all men’s college,” and then chuckled as his expression soured.

Shaking himself out of it he grinned at her before dabbing her knuckles with peroxide.

“Alright then, if I’m a professor than _you_ will be a dance instructor.”

Ziva stared at Tony.

“A dance instructor,” she repeated flatly.

She was unimpressed. She’d given him a noble profession and he had her what?

Undeterred by her lack of enthusiasm he continued on absentmindedly, “Yeah. I mean can you really see yourself trapped behind a desk all day in some high rise with recycled air? No way. You’d kill someone.”

Ziva shook her head at him. Even in their fake lives she was a killer.

“Instead you could teach like, modern dance, or ballet or something. That way you have the freedom to move and express yourself. You’d stay fit, make good money, and…” he paused to open a tube of cream.

She waited impatiently, suddenly invested in this mock world where she taught people how to expand their lives instead of figuring out how they died.

“…you’d be in control. No more puppet masters, or people who say one thing but mean the complete opposite.” The cool cream on her bruised knuckles felt heavenly. She smiled both at the picture he was painting and the gentle circular motions he massaged her hand with.

He glanced up with a small smile of his own, “Besides, fighting’s just dancing with results… Other hand?”

Ziva blinked, and then surrendered her other hand, taking off her jacket in the process. She could feel his eyes on her, evaluating her movements to see if she had a bullet hole or some injury she'd conveniently happened to forget about. She met them readily, admiring how the steam from his tea swirled around his green eyes before vanishing into the nothingness around them. Tony cocked an eyebrow at her and more to distract herself than to answer him she asked,

“Where would we live?”

He looked surprised and then confused, “My place. Here.”

She made a face and stretched some, “We can’t live here, Tony. _You_ barely live here. You don’t even have any bread for crying out loud!”

Tony bridled at the insult, “Well we can’t stay at _your_ place. We wouldn’t be able to afford it without your salary.”

Ziva frowned, “I thought I got paid well.”

Tony waved a wrap in the air dismissively, “Well yeah, in the future, but we’re just starting out…” Concentrating again he muttered, “Anyway my place has the extra room for the kids…and thicker walls.”

Ziva’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe we’d have more money if you’d do some tutoring on the side!”

“No way! I need that time for…mediatation.”

“You mean falling asleep during a movie is meditation?” she asked dryly.

“No, I said _media_ tation. It’s new. I wrote my dissertation on it. Something you obviously still haven’t read,” he sniffed.

“I’ll read yours when you read mine,” she shot back.

They glared at each other, perhaps a little too invested in what was supposed to be pretend. Tony broke first, grinning at her before starting the second wrap.

In the amused lull she took the time to sample her tea…and immediately reached for more sugar, but her hand stopped just short as her tired mind processed what they’d said and panic iced through her veins. In as calm a voice as she could manage she choked out,

 “The...kids…?”

Tony gave her a wary look and then decided to take a sip of his own tea. No doubt to buy himself some time. Grimacing, he swallowed and then cleared his throat,

“Yeah. Abby and McGee... Although Palmer might need a place to crash one night if he and Breena ever get in a fight. Have you seen those two together? The adorableness? It’s disgusting. I almost hurled all over McGee last time I was in autopsy and she visited.”

He was babbling and she let him while she sorted out exactly what was bothering her. Was it the fact that their supposedly pretend, distract-Ziva-from-her-troubles-future, unquestioningly involved him and her together? Or that the mere thought of having and raising a family with Anthony DiNozzo Jr. hadn’t sent her running barefoot to the door? Or maybe it was that she _wanted_ this future they’d created...

“Ziva?” his voice sounded hesitant and that in itself confirmed that he hadn’t meant McAbby and Palmer earlier.

“You are right. We do need the room.”

Tony looked both surprised and relieved, and then thoughtful as he tried to parse out what she’d really meant. She laughed inside; maybe when he found out he’d tell her.

A companionable silence fell upon them and Ziva rested her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy the calm of the storm…or was it calm during the storm…neither of which made sense. But then again, much like the country she loved, English sometimes just didn’t make any sense. This was something she’d come to accept. In front of her there was a rustle of soft fabrics; Tony’s sweats against an ancient NCIS cotton tee. No doubt his shirt smelled like him, she wondered if it was as soft as it looked, how it would feel against her skin after a shower…

Ziva stopped herself, attempting to corral her thoughts. English. Yes. English could be unwieldy but she’d perfected it. Even the words seemed softer now. Take for instance, completely randomly, ‘I love you.’ It just rolled off of the tongue as a three syllable phrase: ailuvyu. She could scream it from the balcony, or whisper it across the pillow; it lent itself to her need. On the other hand, Hebrew had the gravity and mystique she cherished so much.

Ziva frowned lightly.

Well it _used_ to have mystique. Lately Tony had been listening with a little too much comprehension and awareness for her liking. Maybe he’d actually been paying attention during their impromptu Hebrew lessons over the years? Then again she doubted that he’d become fluent off of “I like falafel,” and “Stay in your lane, you moron!” Her forehead eased, only to wrinkle again a second later. So how had he known “At lo levad”…? Perhaps she’d told it to him over drinks? It would explain why she didn’t remember and why he did. The man’s mind was like a…a… a hare trap! A light smile graced her lips: finally an idiom that made sense.

The refrigerator hum that was so synonymous with electricity was singing her to sleep.  They could keep his fridge when she moved in. It was a newer model than hers, and less used.

Off in the distance a siren wailed.

“You don’t trust me.”

The statement from Tony’s mouth was so low, that in any other circumstance she could have pretended not to hear him. But not here in his too-quiet flat.  His words poisoned the peace she’d been filled with a few seconds ago.

Ziva stared at him trying to understand, wildly hoping that this was another turn of phrase that she didn’t get. Even Tony looked surprised he’d said it out loud. He sucked in a deep breath, as though the soft accusation would return to him along with the oxygen. The refrigerator hum reached an unbearable pitch as they stared at each other.

“I trust you with my life, Tony,” she finally managed haltingly. “There is no one that I trust more.”

The jumping muscle in his jaw told her that he was waiting for her to qualify her statement with an “except Gibbs.”

That qualification never came.

Tony placed the spoon down on a napkin and leaned backwards, bringing his knees back under the table before he leaned towards her. She didn’t need body language to read the confusion on his face.

“Then why? I can understand why you used McGee before but tonight on the ship had nothing to do with computers or international hacking. We’re partners. I would have had your back tonight against Bodnar.” _If you'd let me._

 Ziva looked down into her tepid tea. In Mossad they taught one should not ask questions if one wasn’t prepared for the answer. She could feel his eyes searching her face just as intently as she’d searched his a moment ago. Very well; if he had questions he’d get answers.

“Because I have to protect you,” she emphasized the ‘you’ with a pointing finger jab that stopped just shy of his sternum. He looked at her shaking bandaged hand, and then wrapped his hands around hers, ensconcing it in warmth and stability. He matched his eyes with hers. In the dim light they were closer to hazel than the green that she knew they were. A small mocking smile played across his lips.

“I always wondered what that would feel like…being protected.” He sounded thoughtful and calm. “Now I know,” His voice turned hard and she wanted her hand back, “It feels like being broadsided by an SUV.”

 She scoffed, exasperated. His eyes softened in response and she knew that if he hadn’t been holding her hand he would have reached out to her and brushed away an errant strand of hair from her face.

“Ziva,” he murmured, “I don’t need protecting. I can handle myself.”

“Tony,” she began.

“Ziva.”

 She glared at him irritated and he smiled. A genuine, count the teeth, ear to ear smile, and despite herself she couldn’t help but think that it was adorable. He released her hand and stood up, packing things away, talking the whole time.

“I know what you’re gonna say, Ziva.” The first aid box went into the cabinet.

“Things are about to get hectic,” he grabbed his cup of tea and indicated at hers with a raised eyebrow. She nodded and they both were placed into the sink, along with the spoons.

 “Accusations will be thrown, heads will roll…”

Ziva stood up stiffly, snagging a dishtowel from the counter on her way to help him. He moved over, accepting her silent offer to dry. Standing shoulder to shoulder she could feel the heat rolling off of him. Not for the first time she thought that it was good that his height complemented hers.

“Feelings will be hurt…” he handed her a clean, wet mug, which she dried; the earlier feeling of peace returning at doing something as ordinary as washing dishes.

“Uncomfortable truths will be told…oh!” Tony stopped rinsing the last spoon.

Ziva stared at him with a bemused expression. Usually he followed 'oh’s' up with a movie quote. Tony smirked before frowning and squaring his shoulders. As he spoke he shook his head quickly, roughed up his voice, and adopted a strange accent:

 “We are rapidly approaching a moment of truth...Now, truth is not always a pleasant thing, but it is necessary now to make a choice…”

Ziva stopped him mid-quote with a finger against his lips. His breath came out in a surprised huff, warm against her index.

 “It is too late at night for you to be quoting ‘Dr. Strangelove’.” She removed her finger and gently tugged the spoon from his fingers. “Besides, that was not your best Turgidson impression,” she teased.

Tony simply stared at her, his lips parted, his eyes wide and dancing.

Smiling sweetly at his astonished expression she took advantage of his silence, facing him.

“I was _going_ to suggest that we make a deal. Do you want to hear it?

Tony nodded, turning so that they’d be toe to toe.

“Since neither one of us wants to be… _protected_ , how about we simply agree to be open with each other and to have each other’s backs?” Ziva pronounced the words carefully and slowly.

Tony nodded again. Ziva nodded back and piece of hair fell forward into her face. Annoyed she reached up to brush it back, only to be beaten to the punch by a large warm hand. She memorized his face while he took exaggerated care tucking the strand behind her ear. She inhaled deeply. He smelled like…well…Tony, and chamomile. Tony’s eyes flicked to her lips and her breathing became shallower. Rising on her tiptoes Ziva began to press into him, already compensating for the height difference, already wondering if his lips on hers would still _feel_ the same as it did in that other lifetime...

Tony’s phone began vibrating.

They ignored it, lost in the sensation of the other, of what was about to happen. But then Ziva’s phone went off as well. Tony looked up at the ceiling in disbelief, and anger flared in Ziva. They’d been so close! Whoever this was would pay! Immediately she regretted the thought, feeling cold. She’d had enough revenge for a lifetime.

 Stepping far enough away from Tony that their conversations wouldn’t overlap Ziva picked up.

“Special Agent Ziva David...”

“DiNozzo…What is it McGee?”

“Ziva, campfire in autopsy. Get here now.” The line went dead as Gibbs hung up in typical Gibbs fashion. Now she understood why. It gave her no room to protest.

“Team meeting in autopsy? On my way…No. I’ll just ask Ziva. Her place is on the way. Mmhm. Okay.” Tony hung up and turned to her still in disbelief. “The timing, the odds…”

“Are in every movie we’ve ever watched. Really, we should have seen it coming.”

She brushed past him back to the kitchen table where she began scooping up her stuff to go. At the jingle of her keys Tony seemed to recover.

“Give me a moment?” he gestured at his casual sweats and tee.

Shrugging on her coat Ziva tilted her head and he rushed into his room, “Take your time,” she called after him, “It takes 10 minutes to get from my place to yours.”

From inside his room she heard his muffled voice call out, “You memorized the time it takes to get to my place?”

“Only because I wanted to know why you got to work ahead of me some mornings, even though you claimed to have left at the same time.”

Tony emerged fully dressed, and walked quickly to the kitchen cabinets for something before returning to stand right in front of her.

“Take this.” It was the cream that had felt so good on her scratched up knuckles.

“Thank you,” without thinking about it she leaned forward and pecked him on his cheek before pocketing the small tube as they approached his door.

They hesitated in the dark foyer. On the other side of that door was Bodnar, and consequences.

“You know, somehow, I don’t think this would be any easier even if we _were_ dance and film instructors.”

Ziva looked up at him, a small sad smile pulling at her lips.

He stared back quietly before opening his arms. Her heart leapt and she stepped into his embrace, sadness morphing into contentment in his arms. With no space between them she felt as well has heard his assurance, “We’ll be okay, Ziva.”

Seconds passed and eventually they pulled away but not before he pressed a quick kiss into her hair.

They opened the door and stepped out into reality.

In the back of her mind she imagined the graffiti artist furtively look around before beginning to to sketch the outline of a heart.


End file.
